


Keeping the Stars Apart

by allegorica



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Loss of Virginity, dark ritual stuff, is this how you tag i don't even know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 11:09:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3567431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allegorica/pseuds/allegorica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Months of tension come to a head during Solona and Alistair's disagreement about the Dark Ritual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping the Stars Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the kink meme (http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/11571.html?thread=47972147#t47972147) asking for a plus-size Warden and explosive tensions. 
> 
> i like to throw canon conversations/interactions right out the dang window. so, you know. if you're in it for the accuracy you might be a tad disappointed. also it's almost 10k words because _i just don't know when to quit, dangit_.
> 
> also, hooray for this being my second time writing a sex scene ever? feedback on that – and the fic as a whole – is totally welcome.

The fire is crackling in the hearth and so is the lightning at Solona's fingertips.

"So you'd rather die, then," she says, not caring that Alistair hates it when she loses control like this. She can see it now in his face just below the anger, the way his eyes flick from her face to her fingers and back again, as if he can't trust her control. It doesn't happen frequently—Solona has been practicing control for years—but sometimes emotions get the best of her and they are at an all-time high, given the circumstances. "You'd rather sacrifice yourself and be the blighted hero." There is acid in her words. 

"I can't believe we're even having this conversation." He says that in a low voice, shaking his head, eyes to the ceiling as if the Maker himself is waiting with an answer. When he speaks again, it's a shout. "I can't believe you'd ask me to—with _her_ —" His face is flushed red with anger or embarrassment—it's impossible to tell which—and Solona wonders if Morrigan is listening in her room at the end of the hall.

"I'd do it myself, if I could," she says. She balls her hands into fists and the lightning blinks out with a little shock beneath her fingernails. Her chest is heaving and her eyes sting, but she tells herself she won't cry, not out of anger, not out of anticipation, not out of the pure frustration of having the man she cares about tell her to her face that he will do nothing to save them both. "I would, Alistair. Because I care about you, despite you being the most stubborn, nug-headed, Void-taken _oaf_ —"

He turns away from her then, storming across her chamber toward the fireplace. He turns his back to her, and she can see the way his muscles tense beneath the fabric as he clenches and unclenches a fist.

"It's selfishness," she spits. "You're being selfish."

He turns to face her, eyes flashing. Solona never thinks of him as frightening—he's _Alistair_ —but in the firelight, eyes narrowed, his body a large, dark shadow, she sees him as darkspawn probably see him. " _I'm_ being selfish?" He laughs, but the sound is bitter, forced. "You're asking me to—to lay with Morrigan, of all people. How do we know—she could be lying, Solona, manipulating you. I've always thought you were too close." 

"She wouldn’t lie to me, and _Maker_ , Alistair, can't you put your biases aside for one blighted minute—"

"Can't you?" 

Solona's eyes narrow. "What do you mean by that?" Her voice is cool and even. 

"Mages and Templars," he says. It's practically a growl. "You'd always take the word of one of your own, even if it was a risk—"

She bites her tongue to keep from screaming at him. "And you'd always believe the worst of us, wouldn't you? I don't believe you've had an original thought in your life. Is that how you think of me, Alistair? Just teetering on the edge of blood magic and becoming an abomination?"

"No!" He practically barks the word, and his voice echoes off the stone walls. "Of course not, not you, you're different—"

"I am not," she says. "What do you think we are, Alistair? A hive of bees? An anthill? Each of us is different from the next. When you say things like that it's obvious you believe everything the Chantry says about mages, that we're all out for power and domination—"

"I don't," he says. "I don't, but Morrigan—"

"Oh, _Morrigan_ ," she repeats, throwing her arms up in frustration. "Certainly you have your differences, but if you'd taken even one second to try to understand her—"

"What's to understand? She's a—a _witch_ , for starters, and she'd have left us all to die if her blighted dragon of a mother hadn't ordered her to accompany us—"

"And the fact that she's still with us now, even after we killed Flemeth—that means nothing?"

Alistair is silent for a moment, turning back to face the fire. "I don't know, Solona. How can you expect me to go through with this?"

"Would you do it if it was Leliana?"

"Well that's—of course I—that has nothing to do with—"

"You would, wouldn't you? You don't like Morrigan, fine, but to let one of us die because of it—"

"To let myself die," he says. "I won't allow you to strike the final blow."

Solona marches across the room at that, lightning crackling at her fingers again, tears stinging her eyes. "You won't _allow_ me?" she demands, seizing Alistair by the front of his shirt. All she can see of him is an Alistair-shaped blur, orange in the firelight. "You don't get to order me around—you told me to lead and I'll be damned if I'll let you take over now, of all times—"

"I won't let you die." His voice is flat. "I won't, Solona."

"You don't have the right. It's my life. I won't live it without you."

The room is silent but for the pop and crack of fire in the hearth and the roaring that fills her ears. She wants to beat her fists against him and demand that he stop being such a martyr, that he think beyond his distaste for Morrigan for even one moment, but she can only look up at him through watering eyes and use her will to quash the lightning dancing about her fingertips.

A moment passes, then another. And then: "Why not?"

"What do you mean, why not?"

"Why won't you—you'd be fine without me, I'm just—what was it, a 'Void-taken oaf?' I'm just the man with the sword and shield, Solona. You don't need me."

She lets go of his shirt, flexing the stiffness from her fingers. "Of course I don't _need_ you," she says. "I _want_ you, Alistair, badly enough that I'd ask you to lay with a woman you hate in the hopes that we can both go on living. I don't want to die, but I don't want you to die either—I _care_ about you, damn it, and nothing was ever going to happen between us because of who you are and what I am and because there's darkspawn to fight and an Archdemon to kill and any number of other stupid reasons." 

Solona is well and truly crying now, but she forces her face to remain as calm as she can, cursing herself every moment. She'd hoped he'd be receptive to the idea and not question her on it, that he'd value his life above his pride, but of course not—how could she have doubted that Alistair would do anything _but_ take the noble path?

He is silent. He's gone rigid as a board and Solona wishes, not for the first time, that this was a request she could have made of anybody else. "I'm sorry," she says. "I can't force you to do anything you don't want to do. But Maker help me, Alistair, if you don't swear to me right now that you won't strike the final blow tomorrow I will leave you behind, and—"

Without warning, he kisses her. Solona has thought about what it would be like to kiss him, and she imagined soft lights and nature sounds and gentleness, not the hungry, sloppy, clumsiness of reality. But she doesn't care—she seizes his shirt in her hands again and _pulls_ , dragging his body in toward hers until they are pressed together, close as can be. It isn't what she'd expected at all, but that doesn't change how badly she wants it, how badly she wants _him_.

"Solona." The way he says her name is like a curse. " _Maker_ , Solona, I—"

She silences him with her lips and he moves his hands to cup her face, stroking his thumb over her cheek. Maybe he is inexperienced and awkward, but she wouldn't trade it for all the silk in Orlais. She backs up, fist still grasping his shirt, until her knees hit the bed and she falls back, dragging him with her.

He lands atop her with a gentle _oof._ Alistair holds himself up on his forearms, kissing her, then pulling away, kissing her, pulling away again. "Solona," he says, "I didn't—I didn't _know_ —"

"Of course you didn't know, I didn't tell you," she says. "Had a couple other things on my mind, didn't I? Darkspawn, civil war, mild concerns, really—"

"So your way of bringing it up is to ask me to sleep with Morrigan?" His expression is somewhere between pain and laughter. "I might not be experienced, but I'm fairly certain that's not the path most would take."

That they are having this conversation now, with him holding himself above her, with an Archdemon to slay the next morning, and Morrigan awaiting his arrival, is too strange to consider. Nothing has been normal since she passed her Harrowing, and it's enough to make some cynical part of her wonder if she is still trapped in the Fade.

"Morrigan has nothing to do with this," she says, ignoring the strangeness for the time being. "I asked you to—I'm trying to save us both, you ass. And while _you_ might distrust her, she's just different—she wasn't raised in a Circle, she lives her own life, she's not afraid to pursue unusual paths. That doesn't make her evil, Alistair, that makes her different, and—"

"That makes her _dangerous_ ," he insists. "We don't know what she's really up to—"

"The same could be said for any of us. It's not like you haven't kept secrets, _Prince_."

A blush creeps into his cheeks. "Yes, well, I'm a good deal less frightening than she is."

"Certainly. Funny thing about people—when you get to know them, they become less frightening. If you'd taken the time—"

He closes his eyes, letting out a long, slow breath. "I liked this conversation better when we were kissing."

"This is serious, Alistair. We have about twelve hours before—before we fight the Archdemon. I can't make you do anything you don't want to do, but Maker, will you at least consider it? I don't want to die, I don't want you to die, and we have an option." She cups his face in her hands, locking his gaze with her own. "There's nobody I'd rather have at my side when we go into battle tomorrow, but I won't hesitate to leave you behind to keep you from doing something stupid."

"We don't know what she's really up to," he says. He looks away from her, eyes shifting to the right, away from her gaze. "She could be lying."

"You're right, of course. She just desperately wants to sleep with you and couldn't find the guts to tell you upfront, because brutal honesty is a skill she lacks."

"That's not what I mean." His cheeks turn pink again. "We don't know her real motivations, Solona. We don't know the potential consequences—"

"We know one of us will be dead tomorrow."

He buries his face in her neck, mumbling something. His lips feel wonderful brushing against her skin, but Solona puts that aside for now. 

"What?" She wriggles about beneath him, trying to get a better look at his face. 

His face is to the mattress, and she can only catch snippets—"can't," she hears, and "her." 

Solona's frustration has not faded. "Maker's balls, Alistair, if you have something to say, just _say it_."

He rolls off of her and onto his back, rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands. "Have I mentioned that I spent a lot of time in the Chantry?"

"Templar-trained, yes."

"Are you familiar with the Chantry's attitudes toward—well, anything, really?"

"Disapproval, distrust, locking things in towers and putting them under constant supervision?"

Alistair drops his hands to his side, blowing air out from between his lips. "How can I say this?"

Solona sits up on the bed, shifting until her legs are folded beneath her. "Words help."

He closes his eyes. "Funny, I can't seem to find any. I've never—what you're asking me to do with Morrigan is—not a thing I've done before." One eye opens, appraising Solona's reaction.

"You're—oh. _Oh_. I didn't know, Alistair, I had assumed—"

"And why wouldn't you?" he asks, sitting up. "A handsome, charming man like me—a virgin? Scandalous." He's smiling, but his cheeks are tinged pink and he is deliberately avoiding her gaze. 

"So humble, too!" With a crooked smile, she strokes his cheek. "I—well, I'm not going to say that I understand your hesitation because Morrigan is gorgeous and it's sleep with her or one of us dies—"

He frowns, a crease appearing between his brows. "Not one of us," he says. "Me. I wouldn't let you go through with it."

"We were almost having a nice moment, Alistair," she says with a frown. "You don't get to tell me what to do, especially not with my life—"

"I can't have my first time be with her," he blurts, the pink tint of his cheeks becoming a brilliant shade of red that nearly matches her quilt. 

She stares at him for a moment, her head cocked to the side. Her hands are in her lap and a smile spreads over her face slowly until she rolls her lips back over her teeth to contain it. "Is that—is that all?"

His shoulders slump in frustration, and he rubs at his eyes again. "Is that—I know it doesn't mean much to some people, but it means a lot to me. I know some Templars will go out and sleep with anything willing with two legs and a heartbeat and find any loophole they can in the Chant to cover it up, but I always wanted it to mean something, to be with somebody I cared about, and Morrigan is— _not_ that."

She struggles to contain her smile. "I—I might be able to help with that, provided you—uh, provided you care about me."

"Provided I care about you?" His voice grows in volume again, but this time Solona struggles not to laugh. No reason to make the situation more embarrassing for him than it already is. "Of _course_ I care about you, Solona, haven't I—" He pauses, and the annoyance fades from his face until he looks sheepish again. "I suppose I _haven't_ made that abundantly clear, have I? I assumed you weren't interested in—well, _me_ , so I just sort of kept it to myself. But of course I care for you, Solona, it's why I had no intention of letting you slay the Archdemon, it's why I'm bothering to fight with you, not just leave you, it's why I've continued to follow you through all of this—"

"Because your eyes were on my ass?" She can't help but tease him—he looks so blighted earnest, so _serious_ , and despite the fact that they were arguing not ten minutes earlier, she can't abide that level of solemnity right now, not when she's asking him as tactfully as she can whether he might consider losing his virginity to her as a stepping stone toward saving both their lives.

" _No_ —sometimes, but _no_ , because I care about you despite all odds, despite your questionable taste in friends and your reprehensible, near-constant blasphemy—"

"Mm, you really know how to flatter a woman, don't you?"

"You always know precisely when to tell me I'm being an ass," he says. "Maker, I've been a better man for knowing you, and though I'm still wandering about the proverbial wilds, I find it quite a lot more bearable with you."

Solona leans toward him, tilting her head so that she can press her lips lightly to his neck. He shivers, and goosebumps ripple over his skin. "If, say, we were to lay together—could you—"

His breath catches. She wonders if she's said the wrong thing, phrased it indelicately, spooked him. " _If_ ," she says, pulling away. "I won't push you. But if we're—if this is possibly our last night, I wouldn't mind spending it with you. Here. In this bed. If I'm making my point clear."

His eyes close and he shakes his head, slowly. "This is not a position I ever thought I'd find myself in."

"Life's funny that way. Grey Wardens, darkspawn, Archdemons—and here I thought my Harrowing would be the most exciting thing ever to happen to me. But the world just keeps on surprising us."

Opening his eyes, he lets out a long, slow breath and slips his hand into hers. "I don't want to— _with her_ —but…" He screws up his face. "One time, right? And then it's over and I presumably never have to see her face again?"

"If you're okay with that." And Maker, she hopes he is.

He swallows, and Solona's eyes are fixated on his throat, the gentle movement of his muscles beneath his skin. _Please, Maker_ , she thinks, _I don't want to lose him_. And she has no illusions about how the next day will go—to forbid him to fight the Archdemon would be a cruelty, just like recruiting Loghain would have been. Being a Warden is his purpose, or at least he believes it is; he'd have made an awful Templar with that soft heart, but the Wardens are a cause he can fight for because it's for the good of everyone. She can't rob him of that purpose, not even to save him. 

"I—I am okay with that," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Truly?" she asks, and her voice is more desperate than she likes. "You mean it? You're not just saying it because—I don't know, because you have some kind of plan that involves not sleeping with Morrigan and dying tomorrow?"

"I have no plans," Alistair says, and there's a hint of that smile she loves so much playing at the corner of his mouth. "I never do. That's your job."

"And this will make you happy?"

He looks surprised at the question, like nobody has ever asked him that before, and _Maker_ , her heart aches to see it. "The first part, certainly, and, assuming we don't die tomorrow by other means, undoubtedly. But the part with— _no_. Some snakes are beautiful, too, but I've no interest in sleeping with them."

It's her turn to swallow hard. She strokes his hand with her thumb, warmth curling up and settling in her stomach. "This is what you want?"

By way of answer, he kisses her. It's as good an answer as she can hope for. This isn't as hungry and desperate as it was before—she tilts her head until they're kissing more deeply, sliding her hands up into his hair until he makes a sound that goes straight to the place between her legs. Her tongue darts into his mouth and he returns the favor; hesitantly at first, and then with interest, with passion, until she's forgotten that this is likely his first time doing anything like this because all that matters is his body as close to hers as it can possibly be. 

Solona thinks of going slowly, of easing him into this, but she wants him so desperately that, before she's finished her thought, she slides her hands down his body and up through the bottom of his shirt, brushing her fingertips over his nipples. "Mmf," he says, pulling away.

"I'm sorry, is that—"

"No, no, don't be _sorry_ , it's just—" And there's that sheepish smile she loves so much, the one where he looks away from her and the corner of his mouth creeps up. "Unexpected. Never tried that before."

Solona quirks an eyebrow, sliding her hands to the tightness of his stomach. "Good unexpected or bad unexpected?"

"Good, yes, _very_ good, again, please?" 

She obliges, and this time he lets out a little hiss of pleasure between his teeth. There's a hungry look in his eyes that she hasn't seen before, and she likes that—she likes it a _lot_ , if the steady thrum of pleasure between her legs is any indication. As much as she likes the noises he's making, she'd prefer to feel them, and she kisses him again, trying desperately to make up for lost time, for time they might never have again.

His hands slide around her waist but that's not enough; she grabs him lightly by the wrist and guides his hand up to her breasts. She feels his breath hitch and she stifles a giggle, pressing his hand firmly into place until he takes up cupping her on his own, his other hand rising up to palm her other breast. They catch his attention enough that he stops kissing her, moving them this way and that, pressing them in, letting them weigh in his palm. In response, she presses quick little kisses up his neck and draws his earlobe into her mouth, eliciting a shiver and an 'ahh' of pleasure that turns quickly into a cough.

"Okay?" she whispers into the curve of his ear, and he nods several times, sharply.

Solona slides her hands out of his shirt and up his back, tugging gently at the fabric as he goes. He stops palming her breasts long enough to allow her to slide off his shirt, and she takes a moment to appreciate what she sees—his wide chest, his broad shoulders, the scattered scars that mark him like a map. She can feel herself smiling.

"I've—uh, never had anybody look at me like that before," he says.

She laughs. "That you've noticed. I guarantee I'm not the first person to appreciate you this way."

"Maybe not, but please, never stop."

"Gladly," she says, and plants a kiss to his collarbone. Now she can see his shiver, and the satisfaction makes her want to do it over and over and over again forever, Archdemon be damned. 

The kissing is nice, but Solona wants to feel his weight upon her, and she wriggles away and lies down, pulling him down with her. He follows obediently, one leg on either side of her, his bare chest pushing deliciously against her breasts. 

This is not how Solona expected their conversation to go, but, _Maker_ , she'll take it.

She can feel Alistair's length against her thigh, and she shifts her leg enough to draw a gasp from his lips. He goes still for a moment and she does it again, making it clear that it's intentional. He doesn't seem to know how to respond, so she guides his hands to her waist again, closing his hands around the fabric of her robe and guiding them up, up, up, until he takes the hint and, with a couple of shifts in position and a sharp tug, she's before him in nothing but her smallclothes.

He takes a moment to look at her from head to toe, the swell of her breasts, the pear shape of her hips, the thickness of her thighs. Solona's never lacked confidence, and she finds herself saying, as sort of a dare, "Some people don't like the way I look."

"Some people," Alistair says, eyes moving down, up, down again, "are wrong. Not just wrong, but as wrong as it is possible to be." He kisses her shoulder, her collarbone, the gentle _V_ where her breasts meet. "Blasphemy," he adds, shaking his head. "Pity. For them, I mean. Because— _wow_. I could write poetry about you. I won't, but I could. Unless you'd like that, in which case I'll write a poem right now—"

She can't contain her smile. "Poetry later. We have more pressing matters." She pulls him back to her, slipping her arms over his shoulders and pressing her fingers into his back. His skin is soft, softer than she would have expected, and she traces her fingertips over his scars. 

He doesn't argue but she can feel his hesitation, the tension in his shoulders, and she slides one hand from his back to his stomach, lower, lower, until her hand brushes his cock beneath the fabric of his breeches and he hisses through his teeth.

They meet eyes for a moment and he nods almost imperceptibly, his honey-colored eyes dark with desire. She catches his mouth in hers and strokes him again through the fabric, her hand running lazily up and down his length, her teeth seizing his lip just long enough for him to let out a little noise somewhere between a moan and a squeak. 

She's pleased to see that he takes a bit more initiative—while she palms him through his breeches, he's back at her breasts, tugging the fabric of her breastband down until her breasts come free. He runs his finger over one nipple and when she arches her back into it, a little sigh of satisfaction escaping her lips, he does it again, and she finds that, despite his inexperience, he's a quick study.

While taking things slow and steady is a technique she usually likes, they have limited time and she's waited too long for this moment. She slides his breeches over his hips and cups him through his smallclothes, moving her kisses from his mouth to his neck, his shoulder, his collarbone; quick, light little brushes of her lips. "Lie back," she says, and he complies without question, wriggling out of his breeches and settling back, looking confused but exhilarated all the same.

"Tell me when to stop," she says, kissing his chest, his stomach, his hipbones. She pauses above his smalls, slipping one finger, two, beneath the fabric. "Before you climax, preferably—this isn't where we'll be ending the night."

He swallows. Her palm on his chest, she can feel his ragged breathing. "Okay," he says, his voice breathy. "What are you—"

She slides his smallclothes down to his knees, taking him into her hand. He makes that curious sound of pleasure again—a hiss, a moan—and bites his lip. Solona presses her lips to the head of his cock, licks once down the side, dragging her tongue slowly down and up again, and he twists his hands into the bedsheets with a strangled, " _Maker_."

She loves the sound of his voice and resolves that she's going to keep him talking as long as she can. Wrapping her lips around him, she bobs her head, once, twice, three times, before pulling free with a lascivious _pop_. "Good?" she asks, continuing to stroke him with her hand.

Alistair nods several times. 

Not good enough, she decides. "When did you know you were interested in me?"

"What?"

She repeats the question, looking up at him from beneath lowered lashes. He looks confused for a moment, but answers: "Ostagar. Sounds silly, doesn't it, but—"

Solona takes him into her mouth again and he stops talking, but she waves a hand for him to continue. 

"—Oh, uh, Osta—Ostagar. I'd met mages before—obviously, _mm_ , once or, or twice—but the way you didn't—holy _Andraste_ , I—you weren't afraid, not of darkspawn, not of anything, and I'd never seen somebody so—so entirely without fear—"

 _Bless his heart_ , she thinks—she'd expected dirty talk. She can feel him growing harder in her mouth, feel the way his muscles tense.

"—I didn't know much about you then, but anybody who could come into that place without fear—I had to know more about you, and—" He moans, a low, rumbling sound that makes her breath hitch. "I can't—please, Solona, it's too much—"

She pulls away then, planting kisses on his stomach, where bare skin meets curling hair. He's gasping, lips parted, cheeks flushed, grabbing her wrist and pulling her up until he can kiss her, his fingers twined in her hair, his mouth hot and searching. 

Again, she thinks of how she expected this conversation to go, about how she's been pushing him away because she should think of the mission, about how, if she has only hours to live, that there is nowhere else she'd rather spend those hours and nobody else she'd rather spend them with because Alistair is stupid and stubborn and frustrating but oh, the way her chest tightens when she thinks of him.

"I'm sorry I waited so long," she says, breathlessly, lips brushing against his chest. 

" _You're_ sorry," he says, and tilts her chin up with his hand. " _Maker_ , I—now isn't the time, remind me when—when we're finished, okay? I have something to show you."

And that just sets her curiosity ablaze but he's right, it isn't the time, and she guides his hands to her smallclothes now, inviting him to pull them down. He hesitates for only a moment, just until she breathes _please_ in his ear, and then his trembling hands get to work. Solona unhooks her breastband and flings it aside, and for just a moment they do nothing but look at one another, drinking each others' bodies in after too long spent waiting.

Only a moment. "Are you ready?" she asks, because everything is happening so quickly, and she wants to be sure that this is what he wants, not the final, desperate act of knowing one of them is going to die tomorrow. If he survives—as she fully intends him to—she doesn't want him to live guilty for it. 

By way of answer, he kisses her, pulling her forward until her hips are over his, his cock brushing against her entrance and making her shudder with anticipation. "Yes," he says, "I've made mistakes but this isn't one of them, and no matter what else happens tonight or tomorrow, I won't regret this."

It's what she needs to hear, and she takes a deep breath. "I won't either," she says, slipping her hand down, between her legs, to guide him inside. Lowering her hips onto him, she has to bite her lip—it's been some time since she's been with a man, and he's larger than some, or at least large enough that there's a moment of adjusting that hurts beautifully until her body welcomes him and she sighs at the feeling of being filled so completely.

Alistair hisses his pleasure and she withholds a laugh—he sounds like a snake with all that hissing—but can't keep a moan from escaping her lips when he thrusts into her. His rhythm is all wrong but that can be fixed, and she has plans for him. "Relax," she says, "slow down." He looks up at her pleadingly, all big eyes and flushed cheeks and she has to look away because the ache in her chest is like a fist around her heart, it hurts that much.

She runs her hands down his chest, her fingernails just barely brushing his skin. He draws a sharp breath and his eyes flutter shut, and she moves her hips again, up, down, and this time it's not a hiss but an honest moan that comes out of his mouth, and she has to do it again, just to see, and there it is again, a sound she wishes she'd heard a hundred times before this night.

"You're so beautiful," he says.

She can't help but laugh. "Then why do you have your eyes shut?"

"Too beautiful," he says. "Can't look. Like—like the sun coming up over the hills, or—"

She moves her hips again and he interrupts himself with another moan of pleasure. "I can keep going, if it pleases you," he says, and her face breaks into a smile, one that he returns. 

"Maker, no, we've agreed the poetry will wait until later." 

"I can't help it," he says, and she thinks she could drown in that blighted smile, self-deprecating and earnest. "You inspire me, Solona, I could write ballads—"

She leans forward, her breasts brushing his chest, and kisses him long enough to stop him talking. He grabs her hips with his hands and together they find a rhythm, his thrusts sending waves like misplaced lightning spells through her body. Pleasure curls like a cat in her belly, and she guides one of his hands between her legs, moving his calloused, warrior's fingers between the slickness of her folds. 

He gasps against her mouth and the surprise sets her coughing, and then they're both laughing, her hips still moving in rhythm against his. Solona guides his finger in circles around her apex, and he catches on quickly, responding to the way her breathing shifts from even to ragged. 

And this is all well and good, but she wants more. "H-hold on," she says, and she's almost embarrassed by the way she stutters but she doesn't care enough to worry about it. She slides off of him and onto her back, inviting him between her thighs. She expects him to go right back to thrusting inside of her, but instead he dips his head between her legs and laps at her pearl. She cries out and now it's her turn to seize the blankets in her fists. When her head stops spinning, it's all she can do to breathe, "Where'd you learn that, Chantry boy?"

Alistair looks up at her, his lopsided smile catching her like a punch to the stomach. "Just a guess. A good one?"

"Maker, _yes_ ," she says, and he goes back to work. "Finally, a use for that wagging tongue of yours—"

But her remark dies on her tongue in another flurry of gasps, and soon she's tugging at his shoulders, panting hard, begging him to fill her up again. With some fumbling—between his inexperience and her distracting moans every time he slips—he's inside of her again, and she places his hands on her thighs. "Hold them forward," she says, "you'll go deeper." He obliges, and though she's been with men before she's never felt so full in body and spirit at once.

He moves one hand to tilt her face up toward his. "I want to look at you," he says, and the look on his face—somewhere between adoration and pure lust—and the motion of his body, a lazy circle drawn about her pearl, this one moment of perfection, is enough to send her into throes of ecstasy. She cries out, and for a moment he looks shocked, not scandalized but surprised, but then he curses low in his throat—and the novelty of that is enough to make her laugh—and, gasping, he comes inside her.

They're both quiet for a moment, the sound of their breathing and the crackling fire the only noises in the room. Once they've both stopped shuddering, he lets her legs fall gently to the bed and presses kisses to her breasts, one each, her collarbone, and the tip of her nose. He curls up beside her, propping himself up on his hand.

"If whatever Morrigan has planned doesn't work," he says, and Solona is impressed because he is a thousand times more lucid than she feels, "I swear by Andraste's holy bosom I will haunt her until the day she dies because to die only having done that with you once would be a crime against humanity."

She buries his face in his neck, not caring that they're both sweaty and disheveled. She doesn't trust herself to speak, not yet. 

He kisses her cheek once, pauses, and kisses it again several times. "I could do this forever," he says. "Just laying here, kissing you."

"We'll starve," she says.

"I will lay here and kiss you with regular breaks for necessities like food, then," he says. "But that is decidedly less romantic."

"Most things are," she says. "You're a good deal better at that than you have any right to be, you know."

"At what?"

She bites him lightly on the shoulder. He yelps, rubbing his hand over the spot. "Your first time is supposed to be awkward and terrifying. Have you been holding out on me? Are you secretly some kind of debauched Templar, sleeping your way across Ferelden?"

"Ah, so the fear and embarrassment are all part of the experience? Does that go away, or can I expect the horror and crushing anxiety every time?"

She presses her lips to his cheek, then to his lips. "You're an asshole and your many sins are not forgiven, but Maker, I am glad we had that argument if this is where we end up."

"Am I supposed to thank you for that?" He pauses, then scoots away to rifle through his things. Solona takes a moment to admire his back, the way she can see his muscles taut beneath his skin. 

"Maybe," she says. "What are you doing?"

"Hold on." After a moment more of digging, he says, "Ah, here—" and turns back to face her. His face is flushed pink again, and his fist is closed around something. He opens his hand and there, its petals wrinkled and dry, is a blood-red rose. He holds his hand out to her, offering it.

"What—"

"I picked this in Lothering," he says. "Before the darkspawn came. It was—well, it looked a lot nicer, then. Redder, you know. Softer—" He pauses to sniff it, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Still smells nice, though. Go on."

She stares at it, unsure of what to do.

He clears his throat. "It's—it's been through a lot, this rose. Plucked from its family at a—well, I don't know how old it is, precisely, but I assume it was a young age. And I've carried it over a good chunk of Ferelden—well, not _carried_ , I'd say it's been my companion, but—"

"It's a rose, Alistair."

"Yes!" he says, laughing, his fingers curling back over its petals. "Yes, it is, isn't it. Just a rose. It has, uh, petals, those are nice, and it has thorns, which are not so nice, and—"

Solona lets out a long, slow breath. "Do you have something to say?"

"Yes, believe it or not, I, Alistair, have something to say. It's sort of an apology, sort of a confession—just bear with me, Solona. I'm going somewhere with this."

Smiling wryly, she gestures for him to continue.

"Sometimes you—I, I mean, sometimes I—focus too much on one thing. And sometimes that thing is thorns—this rose has about taken my finger off more than once, though I suppose that's my own fault for keeping it in my bag—and sometimes that thing is, well, _not_ thorns, sometimes it's—" He shakes his hand toward her, frowning. "Maker, Solona, please take the thing, my arm's cramping."

Curiously, she plucks the rose from his fingers. The petals are dry as paper, but she can smell its sweet scent even at arm's length. 

"You may not realize this," he says, shaking the cramp out of his arm. "But I am not all that adept at expressing myself."

"I had no idea," she says, absently thumbing the petals.

He clears his throat. "I'm an ass, Solona. Just—my mouth runs but nothing comes out of it. Well, that's not strictly true. Plenty of things come out of it, but none of the things I mean, and certainly nothing useful or helpful or sensical. What I'm trying to say is—I'm sorry. I was focusing too much on the thorns. The metaphorical thorns. Not the—do you—am I making any sense?"

"No," she says, laughing.

He sighs. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was acting like an ass. I'm sorry I _am_ an ass. I can cite a decade or so of Chantry training but that doesn't change the fact that I, Alistair, am an ass."

She brings the flower to her nose, inhaling. "I'm not going to argue with you."

"That's a first," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I really am sorry, Solona. I don't trust Morrigan, that much is obvious. But you're right—I should trust you, and I certainly shouldn't have insisted I sacrifice myself. I would still have done it because I'm not going to let you die when it ought to be me, but I shouldn't have fought about it."

"You have a strange idea of what an apology is."

"You—" He wags a finger at her. "You are persistent. But I owe it to you, I suppose. I assumed you sided with Morrigan because I thought you were everything the Chantry tells us mages are. Selfish, manipulative. Worse things. That you would take her advice over mine—it stung. And it felt like you took her side because she's a mage."

"Are you serious?" Solona asks, sitting up. "You think that I'd ask you to sleep with Morrigan for—for what? For giggles?"

"I was wrong, obviously!" He holds up his hands, palms toward her, in a gesture of surrender. "I was wrong, Solona. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I thought it at the time, and I'm sorry I fought with you about it, and I'm sorry for every one of these conversations we've had because as much as I care for you I am—or I was, I think—afraid of you. And I'm sorry for explaining this now, rather than at any time over the past few months, because that was very stupid of me and you look decidedly less happy than you did a minute ago, is it too late to take this all back?"

Solona pinches the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly. "I never wanted to be a leader," she says. Her voice is quiet now. "I have to make decisions I've never wanted to make. I'm in this position because, for some reason, you and all of the others have chosen to follow me, not because I believe I'm capable or useful or anything at all. It's been one difficult decision after the other and I'm tired, Alistair, I'm so tired of having to make choices about other peoples' lives. What would you do?"

His eyes are wide. "Maker, Solona, I—"

"No," she says, her eyes narrowing. She grasps his wrist in one hand, the pleasant afterglow fading in harsh reality. "Tell me. What would you do, if you were in my position? Keep leading because somebody has to? Imagine that you're me, that you have a chance to save us both if only I'll sleep with somebody else, imagine that you've been harboring feelings but pushing them down because the fate of the world is more important than you and your stupid emotions, and then imagine you're in my position. What do you do, Alistair?"

"I don't know. I would have—I would have frozen, Solona, I wouldn't have been able to make any of the decisions you've had to make over the past few months. I'd rather fall on my sword than make your choices. Someone had to be the person to make these decisions—you can, you have the resolution and that's why it's you."

"But I don't _want_ it," she says. There are tears in her eyes again, and Maker, she's never been much of a crier but she suspects it's become a thing with her now. " _You_ put me in this position. Why, Alistair? Why do I have to be the one, when you've been a Warden longer?"

"Because—" He swallows, taking her hand, the one that's desperately clutching his wrist, in his own. He exhales slowly, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. "Because you're better than me in every conceivable way, Solona. because you _can_ make these decisions. Because you don't let your biases get in the way of what needs to be done—it would have been easy to decry the Templars but you didn't, you negotiated and saved as many people as you could. It would have been easy to let Isolde sacrifice herself but you didn't. There are so many things, Solona, so many places where I would have messed it up, where _anybody_ would have messed it up, but you—I couldn't do it. Because I don’t want it, because I'm a terrible leader, because I'm soft in the head as well as the heart and you're _steel_. Or—" 

He pauses, his eyes drifting to the hand that he's not holding. The rose sits between her fingers, its petals the rusty red of old blood. "That stupid thing," he says. "I picked it because it reminded me of you. In all its—well. It's a little worse for wear now, but I thought—"

Solona feels very tired, suddenly, as if the months of marching and negotiations and fighting demons and darkspawn and every horrible manifestation of evil have just caught up with her, and there is still tomorrow, still an Archdemon, still decisions yet to be made.

"It's a lot like you, isn't it?" His voice is soft, with only a hint of its usual lilt. "You might think one thing about it—it's pretty, or it smells nice, or—that's just an example, I don't think about what any of us smell like, mostly. But it's got thorns, too, because it can defend itself as well as anything, and the people—the roses—around it." He pauses again, his shoulders moving with a long, slow exhale. "What I mean to say is that I thought wrong, Solona. I looked at the thorns and I saw something frightening, something that pricks and draws blood, not a tool, a defense, a response to the world around it. There's more than one way to look at things, and that's what I'm trying to learn."

She draws a shaking breath. "It's a rose, Alistair."

"It is, yes, undoubtedly." He leans in to brush his lips against her cheek, a chaste kiss. "It's a rose I picked for you. Months ago. And I held onto it because I saw your power and it frightened me. And I'm giving it to you now because I've said some stupid things and rather than saying more stupid things, I can give it to you as a symbol for how I think about you. Which is like that. A rose." He smiles that damnable smile. "I wasn't thinking of the symbolism at the time."

Her heart thuds in her chest. Irrationally, she wants to hit him, to drive him away before she has to make another terrible decision and it ends in his death. She wants to keep him safe, but that's not her right, and she wants to scream with the weight of it all. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything. I think I've said enough for both of us, haven't I? It's what I'm good at—talking, saying things, flapping my mouth about, you know, all of that. I ought to make a living at it but, alas, I've an awful memory for stories and can't carry a tune. Please don't dwell on anything I've said, I'm going to do my very best to stop being an ass and that's all you need to know. I'm sorry."

Solona thumbs the petals between her fingers, dry, papery things though they are. "Why did you pick this in the first place?"

"Because I—because it—do you want the flowery version or the truth? _Flowery_ , that was—"

"The truth, Alistair."

"Because it's beautiful and you're beautiful and I thought you might like it. Only I shoved it in my pack instead of giving it to you because, if I'm telling the truth—and I am, Void take me, I'm on this truth horse despite the fact that it's rapidly galloping away with me barely clinging on—because as much as I think you're beautiful and strong and when I made that stupid comment about the Blight bringing people together I hadn't thought that I'd really mean it, in the end, because as much as all of that is true, I was afraid of you. Of mages, really, but you in particular, because, Maker help me, if I gave you this stupid thing and you laughed at me I didn't think I'd be able to bear it."

She blinks, slowly. "I'm not laughing."

"Yes," he says, nodding. "Yes, I had noticed that. Thank you."

Solona presses her thumb against one of the rose's thorns. It's sharp, but time away from water and sun have left it brittle and it snaps under the pressure. "You don't have to be afraid of me. I'd much rather you weren't."

"I'm not. Mostly. You're an intimidating person, you know that?" Alistair's smiling again, his eyes alight. "Lightning in your hands, setting things on fire, that _glare_ you had when Eamon was saying he was going to put me on the throne—don't ever let me get on your bad side. But I quite like who you are." He clears his throat, looking up at the ceiling. "Hence the rose."

She takes a deep breath. "Void take you, Alistair. You have a good heart. A stubborn head, but a good heart." She feels like a drummer is beating out a rhythm inside of her, and it's her turn to press her lips to his. "Thank you. Not for the rose. Thank you for being honest with me. Even if you've been a nug-headed ass, I'm—grateful. I'm trying to do my best."

"If I haven't made it abundantly clear," he says, "I care for you. A lot. Not just because you're terrifying and powerful and beautiful—"

"Is that a _compliment_?" Solona laughs, pushing him lightly on the shoulder.

"I—well, I mean it in a good way. I think." His cheeks flush. "I don't know what I'm saying. You have that effect on me—I think I have the words and then they come out all mish-mashed and out of order. I blame the magic."

"Ah, yes, my mighty power of making people tongue-tied. Very useful in diplomatic negotiations." She sets the rose down, taking his hands in hers. "I care for you too. Also a lot. And I don't think you're terrifying. I think we're both doing our best because that's all we know how to do. And we're going to make it through this, two idiots who haven't the faintest idea how they ended up being the only two people who can save the world."

"Couldn't do it without you."

"Couldn’t do it without you," she repeats, slowly.

A moment passes, the first quiet moment in some time. Solona wonders what time it is, how many hours they have left. The estate is quiet but for the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the gentle sound of their breathing. For a moment, there is no Morrigan awake down the hall, no Archdemon to be slain, no world hanging on the fate of her staff and his sword. 

"This is a strange conversation to have while naked, isn't it?" he asks, and she hits him with a pillow because it's the only thing that feels right to do, to laugh and fill the world with a brief carefree moment until reality crashes down upon them again.

"You should go," she says, when they've stopped laughing. "Don't—don't keep her waiting."

"You're sure this is going to work?"

"No," Solona says. "But it's better than the alternative."

"Fair enough." He pulls on his smalls, his breeches, his shirt. She slides her robes over her head, and when he gets up, she follows, and they both wait at the door for so long that she wonders if they'll ever move again.

"I don't care that you're sleeping with her, if that's what you're worried about," she says.

"I'm more worried that she's like one of those mantis-bugs, the ones that bite off the men's heads when they've finished."

"She won't bite off your head. Too messy."

He laughs. "Very reassuring, thank you, I feel absolutely fine about things now."

Solona pulls him close, burying her face in his chest. "You need to leave before I can't let you go. There's no guarantee things won't go south tomorrow and time is so short—"

"Can I come back?" He looks tired, and she realizes it's late, very, very late, and she should have been asleep hours ago. "After, I mean. Can I—can I sleep here?"

"Maker help you if you don't," she says. 

"I don't think I've ever heard something so romantic in all my life."

Because she knows it won't happen if she doesn't initiate it, she opens the door and pushes him toward it. "Go. Save us both. Try to enjoy it, she's a beautiful woman with more goodness in her than you can see, I'm sure. Or lie back and think of Ferelden, if it feels more appropriate."

"I am a lucky man," he says, and kisses her one last time before she shoves him down the hall.

"Go. I'll be here. We're all going to be okay." _I hope_.

He walks backwards until he bumps into an urn, and he curses under his breath, stops it from wobbling, and salutes her with two fingers before turning around. Solona's chest hurts so much she wants to hex him for making her care. 

She shuts the door, walks to her bed, and lies down. She won't be surprised if sleep never finds her. Curling into a ball, she thinks about seeing him in an hour, the next morning, the day after, and the day after that. The world is full of unhappiness, so she focuses on this one thing until the weariness creeps into her mind and she drifts off, dreaming, blissfully, of nothing at all.


End file.
